


Welcome Home

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Constructed Reality, Doctor John, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, M/M, Memory, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Poor Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Serbia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Reunion Fic, Science Experiments, Senses, Serbia - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock's best friend is logic, Sherlock-centric, Torture, Trauma, Understanding John, Yes another reunion fic, a bit anyway, but it is not always his, light - Freeform, sensory recall, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4112386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All my nightmares escaped my head. Bar the door, please don’t let them in. You were never supposed to leave. Now my head's splitting at the seams."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics in the summary are taken from the song 'Welcome Home'- by Radical Face. No this is not a song fic.

 

 

The morning is unremarkable.

  
Mrs Hudson is bustling about ‘cleaning’ which mostly consists of her pointlessly rearranging his things, why? He hasn’t a clue because she knows he’ll only put them back again, everything has its assigned place. He suspects she just wants to be close to them unconsciously

  
John is munching on his toast and reading bits aloud from the newspaper, ridiculous, funny, or odd articles, occasionally something that might be of interest to Sherlock; like murder.

  
Sherlock is at his microscope examining cultures from his flat worm experiment on the window sill, huffing in amusement at John’s remarks and sarcastic comments.

  
Mycroft will be stopping by later to get him to sign that paperwork he’s been nagging on about, Sherlock told him to just forge it himself but turns out the snooty git’s above that sort of thing when he actually has permission.

  
Who would have thought that being resurrected would be so excruciatingly tedious?

  
He’s left Mr-British-Government to sort out the seemingly endless list of forms and official explanations regarding his death, that is Mycroft’s division after all; his slimy world of politics, bureaucracy and thinly veiled half-truths. There was no need for Sherlock to subject himself to all of that rubbish when Mycroft could suffer through it instead.

  
His brother owed him that at least, if not far more; probably more than he could even return. But of course Mycroft didn’t see it that way.

  
John is happy, Mrs Hudson is delighted to be Not-Their-House-Keeper once more and there are no imbeciles to bother him because they’re all under the impression that he no doesn’t exist, which suits him just fine. There is a copious amount of tea; made just _right_ , he’d found that there was no one in the world who could complete this simple task as expertly as John Watson, himself included.

  
He had unfortunately had copious opportunities to test this theory.

  
And oh how he’d missed this, 221B, easy companionship and that elusive feeling of belonging.

  
His leg spasms but he ignores it, listening to John creating a pleasingly domestic sort of background noise, without really paying close attention. Normality. At last.

  
The flat worms are coming along nicely, just as he’d predicted they would. It’s so satisfying when science and chemistry offer him such a reliable infrastructure to fall back on.

  
Equations never let him down like people tend to do, and it’s nice to be able to take something for granted in this world. For example; combining the same chemicals of a constant mass and concentration, even multiple times, when following the same procedure, will always result in the same reaction taking place, and that reaction will give the same final products, when the contaminants are negligible.

   
…The light above the table appears to be moving gradually to a slightly yellow tinge rather than white, but it’s a nearly imperceptible shift, so he might be imagining it…

  
The laws of physics are absolute and remain constant, they always apply, regardless if one is consciously aware of them or not, the powerful workings of the universe do not care whether if man, insignificant in comparison, believes in their existence. Laws of motion and forces aren’t susceptible to fluctuations, or dramatic ups and downs without reason as emotions are want to do.

  
Everything can be quantified, broken down and explained logically, unlike the disjointed and… _changeable_ workings of the human psyche.

  
No. Here there is reason in the place of confusion and ignorance, there are no self-governing variables or grey areas, but a simple, calculable margin for inaccuracy. The atomic mass of caesium is 132.905 and it always will be; a simple fact, not subject to manipulation.

  
In the laboratory, things are approached with rationality, even the light is spread evenly. The benches, equipment and instruments are all bathed in a uniform neutral white; crisp and clear. There are no shadows, no dull and sickly yellow glow, it is clean and straightforward, and it is here that he is in his element. He has a laboratory standard direct/indirect tube installed over his head right now in fact, for his make-shift kitchen-laboratory.

  
Human anatomy and physiology are fascinating subjects but contrary to theory and textbooks, no human cells operate the same in any given person. Genes can be methylated at random and cells malfunction and become cancerous; malignant. Vital proteins often do not behave as they should, taking the initiative to do god knows what.

  
Our transport is unreliable.

  
But not just the physical body either, the concept of one’s mind is abstract and overly philosophical. There are potentially unlimited sources of error. What actually initiates conscious thought is a heavily debated topic; there are so many functions of the brain that remain incomprehensible to us.

  
…His thoughts stutter momentarily.

  
Has the ambience of the room changed? He can’t seem to shake the notion that the sun has gone behind a cloud, which under the strip fluorescent lighting is ridiculous. He has goose bumps.

  
He shakes it off; where was he…?

  
He wishes he could break down and dissect the insanity and chaos of his dreams, but he can’t. He can’t pin down the sudden fits of intense emotion that ensnare him; emotions that are contrary and do not belong in the moment, and yet, there they are. He can no longer control what he does and does not remember at will. He has been damaged somehow, but he can’t trace the fault, so he can’t fix it.

  
He could do an analysis of his synovial and meningeal fluids, his tissues, and his blood, could calculate and determine the exact chemical makeup and concentration of every single compound present. He _could_ do that, could do it a thousand times and still learn nothing to help him.

  
Because there are no parameters for what he is looking for, no concise words to sum up the exact role that each molecule plays, how their particular version of cause and effect presents.

  
He wants to know what is causing these problems for him, on an atomic level, in minute detail. But if he doesn’t know the role that each miniscule part of him plays in regards to his mind, then he has no way of determining which ones are acting abnormally and therefore what corrections to apply.

  
He doesn’t know how to find out what’s wrong with him or how to fix it.

  
No one does.

  
He doesn’t know why on a chemical level. But, he actually _does_ know why he feels so unstable in broad terms. Sherlock knows why he’s plagued with night terrors (not nightmares, he knows the difference), why he feels like he has to be constantly on guard even in his own home, why his fight or flight response malfunctions and he’ll brace for a blow that’s not coming. He doesn’t know what his amygdala is doing, perhaps it has developed epilepsy?

  
There’s a cause, there is for everything; action and reaction. There are events and experiences with a clear link to the development of this uncharacteristic and thoroughly undesirable behaviour.

 

 

The dreams, the tremors, the lack of concentration (just now for instance, how long has he been staring at this slide?), aphasia, and insomnia, they are just the effects. Response to stimulus, but the stimuli in question are no longer present; so why? There is no longer a biological reason for this to be happening. And why is it happening to him specifically when not to others, surely he of all people should be immune?

  
How exactly is his brain interpreting each wave of sensory input, how does it react, what is the observable response that is presenting for each unit of data? There are so many questions about the mind and so few answers. The answers that _are_ available to him are not concrete, they’re mostly conjecture and educated guesswork and that’s not…

  
…The lighting in the room is _definitely_ getting gradually dimmer. He doesn’t like it at all. He asks John to replace the bulb and he says he will ‘in a minute’ and goes back to his book, having apparently finished with the newspaper.

  
What was he thinking about again?

  
He goes to focus his attention on the next sample, but to his surprise he’s finished all of them, he must have been very efficient.

  
“Hungry?” John asks hopefully.

  
“Oh for the love of- we’ve only just had breakfast.”

  
John looks at him strangely but fondly, like he does when Sherlock doesn’t know something ‘important’.

  
“It’s two in the afternoon you nutter, I _thought_ you looked a little spaced out, but then I’m used to you ignoring me, besides,” John needles him gently, expression warm; “all you did was nick a bit of my toast, so I don’t think that qualifies, so, do you want lunch or not?”

  
Two PM? How could it be so late, he’d looked at his watch a few minutes ago and it had been 10:30, how had he misplaced that much time? His experiment certainly should not have taken so long, so what had he been doing? He draws a blank.

  
“Wasn’t Mycroft going to subject us to whatever nonsense around midday?” Mycroft was never late and he couldn’t possibly have missed him. Could he?!

  
“Huh? Oh yeah, he texted you a few hours ago, probably couldn’t make it, must have some small children to scare or something,” John offers casually as he starts making sandwiches, “Plus he wouldn’t be able to use that umbrella today, bit windy. Maybe he’s so overly attached to it that he stayed in, can’t leave the house without it. I mean he does carry the bloody thing with him all year round, so it’s not a huge leap.”

  
It is indeed pretty wild out there, but Sherlock doesn’t remember it raining earlier. He goes to give John a wry smile, because he’s apparently become a comedic genius overnight, and Sherlock is always appreciative of a joke if it’s at Mycroft’s expense, but it doesn’t quite sit right on his face.

  
When he turns back from the window to finish up, he’s struck by how much of a yellow hue there is to the room, he suddenly feels cold, and a little bit sweaty. The light reminds him of something, but he can’t recall what; it’s just out of reach…

  
“Hey? You okay? You’ve gone a bit peaky,” John is peering at him quizzically.

  
“Yes, it’s just the…uh…the light,” His instincts are telling him something terrible is about to happen as if tragedy is a forgone conclusion. Absolutely nothing is wrong but the atmosphere _should not_ _be_ that colour, and his brain is screaming that it’s unsafe.

  
_Assess the situation._

  
“Oh yeah, I think the bulb needs changing,” John comments, shuffling over to get the bread box.

  
He feels sick, and he swears he can smell mildew; it’s disgusting and it’s getting stronger exponentially. What does that light remind him of? It’s dimming, it’s more of a smouldering orange now and his blood is turning to ice, he’s so cold he’s shivering.

  
“Well why don’t you change it then?” he snaps, “And do something about that awful smell.”

  
John looks taken aback, and then becomes annoyed.

  
“Well I would, wouldn’t I? If someone hadn’t insisted on specialist fluorescents, I can’t just pick those bloody tube things up at Tesco. May I remind you that those gross little worm things were your idea, I’m not coping the blame for that one, and y’know what? I can’t even smell them.”

  
_John couldn’t smell that?_

  
The flat worms didn’t have an especially strong odour, it was something else entirely. It was overpowering, cloying, he felt like the air was saturated in mould. It smelt like…?

  
He feels a tugging sensation in his frontal lobe, like someone is actively pulling something from his brain and out of his forehead. It is incredibly unpleasant, were his own brain cells so fed up with him that they felt the need to escape?

  
It’s getting steadily colder, although it has absolutely no right to, and he’s a bit dizzy, his blood sugar is probably a bit low, he might want to eat something after all. He’d tell John but he might be sick if he opens his mouth and he’s not confident he’d make it to the toilet.

  
He has to concentrate on what John’s saying but he can barely hear him over the ringing in his ears.

  
“Look the light’s not even that bad, it’s only gone a little dull, we can’t all have super heightened senses.”

  
What’s John on about? Sherlock’s senses are probably the least remarkable thing about him. The change in lighting was blatant and extremely unsettling. You’d have to be blind not to notice it.

  
John’s still facing away from him preparing lunch, “D’you want cheese and tomato, or ham?” When he gets no response he glances up at Sherlock.

  
Serbia.

  
The mildew, the lighting, the cold; it’s just like it was in Serbia. His frozen memories are starting to reactivate without permission, there’s an alarm blaring in his head, shit. He’s having a hypnagogic regression.

   
Or is he?

  
This isn’t how it’s supposed to work, shouldn’t he be watching the torture all over again like a film, shouldn’t he be in agony? Unless…unless he’s in shock, unless him mind is blocking out the pain, withdrawing inwards to protect himself…Is it possible?

  
_Could he still be there?_   
  


The idea is so horrible that he tries to quash it instantly, it’s unthinkable. _But you can’t kill an idea, can you?_ His own words come back to haunt him and the more he tries not to think about it the more he does. Maybe Mycroft never pulled him out; maybe he never left at all. He knows that when the brain realises any action is of no avail, when there is no way out, that it can try to recoil to keep the mind from being ripped apart. But his didn’t recoil fully; it’s snagged and has gotten twisted.

  
But no, he knows what is corporal and what is delusion, doesn’t he? Of course he does, don’t be stupid. But Christ that smell is unbearable!

  
He can see Bakers Street, everything before him looks authentic, but everything else is Serbia, a mental cascade. Colours are blurring out from their outlines, and he’s trying to hold on to the image of the flat but it’s getting fuzzy. And what he once thought were just memories are too strong to be so easily dismissed, they’re more powerful and heightened than his little faux reality at 221B.

  
Once you’ve eliminated the impossible then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

  
_Oh god no, anything but this, he can’t do it, can’t go through that again. John, make it stop!_

  
He’s in Serbia. It’s not a memory; it can’t be. It’s real. He’s living it. He’s there, right now. He’s not secure. He’s a prisoner. Any moment the pain will assail him once more.

  
John’s moving towards him but it’s not real and it’s so blurry. This has all been a fabrication, a good dream and the dream is being wrenched from his head as the nightmare creeps back in.

  
He wants to stay here; he wants it to be real, wants to be home. But maybe he just wanted it badly enough that he convinced himself it was true; textbook coping method for trauma.

  
The light flickers.

  
_Goodbye John._

~

 

He wakes up, and he’s not in Serbia at all, he’s still in the kitchen at 221B Bakers Street, London, England.

  
He’s on the floor, in the corner, back against the cabinets. John is watching him, crouched a few feet away in an effort not to crowd him.

  
Sherlock’s terrified, he has no idea where he _really_ is, or what just happened. Is he being tortured in a freezing cell full of mould, lit by ancient lamps? Or is he curled up in a ball on the linoleum? It’s hard to say for sure. He doesn’t think his mind would imagine this odd situation though so he _thinks_ what he’s seeing is genuine, but he doesn’t trust himself.

  
John is sombre, but he isn’t panicking, he’s being remarkably patient, like he is well seasoned in this sort of thing, but of course he actually _is_ , isn’t he? This was practically his day job.

  
Sherlock however _is_ panicking, he’s absolutely panicking, he’s petrified.

  
The lines on John’s face become less pronounced as he recognises that Sherlock is aware of his surroundings, but he still looks like he’d just lost something important.

  
What the _hell_ had just happened? His brain feels scrambled.

  
“Shhh, Sherlock you’re safe, I promise you. I know you’re scared but I need you to focus; breathe.” John’s voice is soothing but it doesn’t seem to be that simple.

   
He can’t calm down; he’s behaving like a lost little boy who has just had a fright.

  
“Hey. Sherlock, look at me, it’s John. This is real. You had some sort of flashback, but it’s over and you’re going to be okay. It may not feel like it, but what you’re feeling right now? This is temporary.” His speech is straightforward and deliberately measured, which is good because he’s not sure he could understand it otherwise. What he’s saying is elementary but he clings to it; the voice of reason.

  
Sherlock is still rendered immobile by fear, are his eyes enormous and glued to John; his lifeline.

  
“C’mon, just do what you do best yeah? Observe your surroundings. Look for things that you couldn’t possible create in a dream environment, and make a deduction,” John is pleading with him softly.

  
“Where are you?”

  
Captain Watson; army medic, may have plenty of experience with these types of situations but the part of John that is Sherlock’s partner, his blogger; his best friend is unable to stay detached, Sherlock’s distress is getting to him. Probably because he knows what it’s like.

  
He does as he’s told, he glances at the digital clock on the microwave; the numbers are still and clear, it’s 2:46pm. He carefully studies John’s novel which has fallen to the floor next to him, the sentences of the blurb are legible, they’re in English, in the right order and they make sense. John Watson is dependable to a fault.

  
This is real. A gigantic weight lifts from his chest and the fog in his mind clears, but he’s still in pieces emotionally.

  
“…Kitchen?” It’s hard to speak when his teeth are chattering so much.

  
“Yeah, thank god. Yeah that’s right, we’re in the kitchen.” John might have been holding his breath, “He’s back,” John whispers to himself.

  
He reaches out to John shakily for reassurance, to validate his conclusions, much as he had done on the rooftop of St. Barts. John acquiesces readily, he wraps him in a tight hug and doesn’t let go.

 

 

“This is real, this is real, this is real.” Sherlock repeats to himself under his breath, holding on to John’s shoulders for dear life.

  
“Yes, it is. I’ve got you.” John sounds relieved, and it would have been moved, if he was alert enough to properly appreciate it.

  
He takes some time to fathom what _the fuck_ is actually happening, and he slowly becomes aware that they’re sitting on the floor of the kitchen in the middle of the afternoon, John is holding him with an intensity that he’s only ever seen occur in airports on those idiotic films he’s coerced into watching, and to top it all off, he’s practically sitting in John’s _lap_.

  
But what is the most astonishing part is that he _doesn’t care_. Because John isn’t embarrassed, John doesn’t think it’s demeaning, John doesn’t think that he’s weak and John’s life is not in danger. And most of all because he’s not in Serbia, because that’s the best news he’s ever heard. He doesn’t care that he just lost his grip on reality for a moment because he’s not in Serbia at all, he’s…

“I’m _home_.”

  
He’s really home. Sure, he’d technically been back for a few weeks but it hadn’t really hit home until now and he was overwhelmed by the flood of emotion.

  
“Yes you are, of course you are; you’re home,” John is incredulous at first and possibly thinks that Sherlock is delirious.

  
But then John Watson goes and does something brilliant (as he very occasionally does) and says the words that no one had said, three words that he hadn’t realised that he desperately needed to hear:

  
“Welcome home Sherlock.”

 

 


End file.
